]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/8836/feed/0I Will Fix Youhttp://theanonymouswriter.com/poetry/i-will-fix-you/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/poetry/i-will-fix-you/#respondSun, 06 Aug 2017 13:13:44 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=8832 I am the moment; The moment at the back of your spine Which crawls up inch by inch, And embraces your neckline. Traces

]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/urdu/%d9%86%d8%a7%d9%85%d8%ad%d8%b1%d9%85/feed/0A Letter To Hannah Baker From ‘13 Reasons Why’http://theanonymouswriter.com/letter/letter-hannah-baker-13-reasons/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/letter/letter-hannah-baker-13-reasons/#respondMon, 31 Jul 2017 02:50:50 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=8823Dear Hannah, I know it doesn’t make any sense to write a letter to a dead person. But then, you have left tapes to

I know it doesn’t make any sense to write a letter to a dead person. But then, you have left tapes to people after killing yourself, so you have left me with no choice. I am not writing this letter to you to debate whether what you did was right or wrong, because it’s already been done; I am writing this letter to you just to express my thoughts about what you did, just like you did.

You were in a lot of pain, so you killed yourself. You did what you felt was right. I get it. And, I don’t mean to trivialize your pain or discount your troubles. Living does seem too painful at times. But, didn’t you know that what you did would cause a lot of pain to others, too?

Your friend, Alex, killed himself in the end, probably from the guilt of the pain he caused to you. I bet you didn’t see that coming. Perhaps, you made him out to be a worse person than he actually was. A man in Peru killed himself in real life just the way you killed yourself. Perhaps, you didn’t think your reel death would affect people so much in reel as well as real life.

I know you just wanted the pain to end. Honestly, I wanted the same for you. So, I don’t blame you for killing yourself, but I feel sad for the people who have to live without you. Your parents, your friends who genuinely cared for you. They will never get complete closure. They would probably blame themselves for your death all their lives and never stop thinking whether they could have saved you. They would probably never forgive themselves for letting you down. You didn’t deserve the pain but neither did they.

I know you might not agree with this and you don’t need to, but perhaps you could have saved yourself and others a lot of pain if instead of leaving them the tapes after killing yourself, you could have left them when you were alive, or confronted them and had an open conversation with them. Perhaps, you could’ve changed your mind had you realized that not all of them were mean to you on purpose; that people make mistakes, that nobody is a good human being at all times, that people can change for the better if you let them.

True, some people can be irrevocable monsters, but there would be no good people left in the world if they all started killing themselves over the actions of some bad people, right? And perhaps, you could have found some good people if only you had looked for them.

These days, a lot of my friends are suffering from depression, bipolar disorders, anxiety and other mental illnesses. And a lot of them are suicidal. What do you do when you have nothing left to live for, they ask me.

To be honest, I don’t know what to tell them or you. But all I know for sure is that I am scared of losing them. I don’t want to wake in a world tomorrow that doesn’t have them. Perhaps, I am selfish in not wanting to lose them. Perhaps, I am being inconsiderate for judging your decision to take your life. After all, it was your life to take. What right do I have to stop someone from killing themselves? I don’t. Because, deep inside, I am somewhat of a pessimistic nihilist, too. There are times when I can’t find anything left to live for. There are times when I can’t find any meaning in life.

At such times, I simply try to push these thoughts away by trying to enjoy all that life has to offer us. I try to be an absurdist instead of a nihilist. Maybe life has no meaning. Maybe all the beautiful nature, art, and beauty life has to offer doesn’t suffice. Maybe there’s nothing left to live for. But can’t we simply live for ourselves? After all, what’s the point of giving up now after coming so far and letting all that pain go in vain?

You see, dying is not the only way to stop the pain. They say that time can heal all wounds. But I have realized, it cannot. You simply suffer new wounds that make you forget your old ones. Maybe that is what life is about. Surviving.

I wish you had survived and written a different ending to your story than the one you have written now. You see, life doesn’t offer us a happy ending always. It’s we who create the happy ending. I wish you had created your happily ever after.

Perhaps, 13 reasons why you wanted to kill yourself could have given way to 13 reasons why you wanted to live.

]]>I’ve been cramped up inside this small cage for far too long. The steel wires are constantly abrading my feathers, leaving me a little more naked with each passing minute. But this nakedness is not my concern right now. It’s temporary, and shall last only till the time I’m alive.

Nudity works differently for us chickens. We’re covered with a thick layer of feathers all of our adult lives. It’s only after we’re dead that we get fully denuded.

But my death isn’t too far. My brother was the last one to get slaughtered by the butcher last night. His small head flew a few feet due to the bad angle along which the butcher brought his knife down. The poor butcher must have been tired, my brother being his last slaughter of the day, the last one after hundreds of chickens since dawn.

Sigh!

I have a feeling that I’ll be the first one to go this morning. All the other chickens in this cage were stuffed just an hour ago. Their bodies are still shiny white, whereas mine is a messy creamish pink. Remember my nakedness?

]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/i-chicken/feed/0First Nighthttp://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/first-night/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/first-night/#respondSun, 16 Jul 2017 07:13:36 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=8814I woke up and he was gone. It was not the first time when a guy had left me alone in the morning with the

]]>I woke up and he was gone. It was not the first time when a guy had left me alone in the morning with the memories of the night. The nights have always been like a tunnel to me. I always enter into them like a train with no other option but to succumb to the dark reality.

But out of the blue, in that darkness, I begin to appreciate the quantum of its beauty. And at that very moment, I see a ray of light. Ironically, it’s the only ray of light I’ve never hoped for or looked forward to.

I had also hoped for things to change after marriage. When you wake up and find the one you slept with last night, it does not really change the night. But it gives you hope that there are more tunnels where you can unload the baggage of life.

Anyway, I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. The blood red shade of my lipstick had stripped itself to make way for the nude shade. I quickly fixed my hair and begun to wipe last night’s make-up off my face to put the new one.

“Why am I even bothering?” I questioned myself while putting the mascara.

“If my wedding night make-up could not keep him in bed, what will?” I thought.

I slowly walked out of the room. It felt like a new world to me. I did not know which doors to open. One by one, I hesitantly walked into all the rooms, only to find him nowhere.

As I walked back to the bedroom, I heard his voice. I was yet to see him. I followed the voice and it led me towards the bathroom. I stood by the door, spying on my husband on the first day of our marriage.

“Last night was the most beautiful night of my life… too cliché,” he said.

“I love you,” he said again.

I could hear him behind the noise of the running tap as if he was trying to pour out a nice sentence before the tap fills the bucket.

“You look even more beautiful in the morning,” came another statement.

As he struggled to unlock the words, I tried to unlock the door. To my surprise, we both unlocked those at the same time.

“I hope the last night went well. I sincerely hope so. But if it was not a great night, forget it. I promise you a journey filled with great nights. I love you, I really do,” he said.

His eyes were closed by the gravity of the words coming out.

As his eyes opened, he looked into the mirror and spotted me in the reflection.

His unkempt hair, swollen eyes, tired face and his sheepish smile, I fell for all of it. And I fell in his arms.

]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/first-night/feed/0Strengthhttp://theanonymouswriter.com/offbeat/strength/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/offbeat/strength/#respondSun, 09 Jul 2017 15:17:29 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=8678The glare of the bright lights on the stage blinded him for a moment. His heart was in an overdrive and he was afraid that

]]>The glare of the bright lights on the stage blinded him for a moment. His heart was in an overdrive and he was afraid that the audience could hear it beating. His palms were sweating, and little beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. He had never been afraid of being on stage, no. Since the time he was very young, stage had only pulled him towards it. He had always loved being on stage, and more than that, he had always loved making people laugh. Combine these both, and what more could he ask for?

He had been up here, in the spotlight, for countless times now, but today was different. Today was his first solo show on a national level. The tickets had been sold out just five hours after being out, and he was surprised. He had come to terms with the fact that people wanted to listen to him and liked his jokes, but this? This was outright overwhelming. A million thoughts were racing through his mind at the moment.

What if he fails to deliver today? What if he stammers? What if these people, who have spent so much of their hard-earned money just to watch him perform, don’t find him funny? His anxiety was escalating alarmingly with every passing moment, and he was feeling like he was going to be sick.

He turned around to call in his manager to arrange for a break of 10 minutes, and just as he was turning, his eyes fell on him, and everything slowed. His heart wasn’t thumping anymore, but rather had slowed to a rhythmic beating as hundreds of past memories crossed his mind.

He was here, today. How could he forget? He was always there. He had always been, for the past 21 years. He smiled at him, and like always, he gained all his strength from his father’s smile, the most beautiful thing on the planet.

With him by his side, nothing was impossible. He turned to face the audience, and he knew that he was going to be alright. Like every other show, he was going to seize this one as well.

]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/offbeat/strength/feed/0Google Mapshttp://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/google-maps/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/google-maps/#respondSat, 08 Jul 2017 17:04:03 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=8600“Bhaiya, you have to drop me off first,” were the first words which fell on my ears as I got into the Uber which I

]]>“Bhaiya, you have to drop me off first,” were the first words which fell on my ears as I got into the Uber which I had booked to return home that monsoon evening.

I looked at the girl sitting beside me, barking orders at the Uber driver.

I looked at the Uber driver. He was a man of about my father’s age. He was struggling to get used to Google Maps app.

The girl sighed, mumbled something and said, “Left. Then right.”

I sat back and watched it all.

The girl seemed way too frustrated with the cab driver. The driver, in turn, was way too nervous.

Despite my drop location being en route to the girl’s drop location, I sat quietly. She had insisted on being dropped off sooner.

She got down at her location. The driver looked at her and said, “Sorry, Ma’am.”

“Learn to use Google Maps. What good are you as a driver otherwise?” she said and walked away.

The driver wiped the corner of his eye with his finger, smiled and asked me, “Where do I drop you off, Ma’am?”

I guided him to my location.

“Thank you,” I said and walked away.

I found my phone and dialled my father’s number.

Two rings later, I heard a “Hello, beta!” on the other end.

“Papa, I’ll teach you how to use Google Maps. I’ll teach you how to use any other app which you are unable to use, too. You don’t have to worry. You’ll be way better at it than I am. I love you, Papa,” I said in a single go.

“Haha! Sure, beta. First tell me, who had a problem with Google Maps today?” he said.

I smiled.

Google Maps would show that he is approximately a thousand kilometers away from where I am.

]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/google-maps/feed/0Faded Memorieshttp://theanonymouswriter.com/offbeat/faded-memories/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/offbeat/faded-memories/#respondSun, 02 Jul 2017 16:21:09 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=6319What do we usually do when someone who means a lot to us, leaves us? We don’t usually search for ways to let go.

We don’t usually search for ways to let go. We don’t usually look for ways to lessen our hurt.

Instead, we search for the songs that remind us of them and listen to them on repeat. We watch movies that make us fantasise of what could have been. We go to the places where we used to spend time with them and let the hurt, the pain of losing someone who meant the world to us consume us. It is like a poison to our bones, but we let it flow, because something needs to replace the love that we hold inside of us for that person, and bitterness does the job very well.

More often than not, we shut ourselves from the world, not letting anyone share our pain because even this hurt is a memory that we have of the ones who have left, and we don’t want to keep it for ourselves.

This is all a part of healing, a part of eventually letting go, of becoming accustomed to a regular presence becoming an absolute absence. And it is healthy, only until we know when to stop.

Misery is addictive. The feeling that nobody is there for us is addictive. And sometimes, we try to replace the addiction to some person with this addiction to hurt.
Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

Don’t ruin whatever can be your future for something that has become a thing of the past. Easier said than done, but something that should be only a part of the process of healing sometimes goes on to become our way of living. We refuse to let anyone be there for us because we have convinced ourselves that nobody wants to be there for us.

Don’t ruin whatever can be your future for something that has become a thing of the past. Easier said than done, but something that should be only a part of the process of healing sometimes goes on to become our way of living. We refuse to let anyone be there for us because we have convinced ourselves that nobody wants to be there for us.

Don’t let a process of moving on become the principle that you live your life by.

Don’t let what should only be a wound healing with time become a scar that never fades; for there’s a world out that you are yet to conquer.

Don’t let what should only be a wound healing with time become a scar that never fades; for there’s a world out that you are yet to conquer.

What do we usually do when someone who means a lot to us, leaves us?

What do we usually do when someone who means a lot to us, leaves us?

We don’t usually search for ways to let go. We don’t usually look for ways to lessen our hurt.

Instead, we search for the songs that remind us of them and listen to them on repeat. We watch movies that make us fantasise of what could have been. We go to the places where we used to spend time with them and let the hurt, the pain of losing someone who meant the world to us consume us. It is like a poison to our bones, but we let it flow, because something needs to replace the love that we hold inside of us for that person, and bitterness does the job very well.

More often than not, we shut ourselves from the world, not letting anyone share our pain because even this hurt is a memory that we have of the ones who have left, and we don’t want to keep it for ourselves.

This is all a part of healing, a part of eventually letting go, of becoming accustomed to a regular presence becoming an absolute absence. And it is healthy, only until we know when to stop.

Misery is addictive. The feeling that nobody is there for us is addictive. And sometimes, we try to replace the addiction to some person with this addiction to hurt.

Don’t do it.

Don’t ruin whatever can be your future for something that has become a thing of the past. Easier said than done, but something that should be only a part of the process of healing sometimes goes on to become our way of living. We refuse to let anyone be there for us because we have convinced ourselves that nobody wants to be there for us.

Don’t let a process of moving on become the principle that you live your life by.

Don’t let what should only be a wound healing with time become a scar that never fades; for there’s a world out that you are yet to conquer.

]]>http://theanonymouswriter.com/offbeat/faded-memories/feed/0Egg and Hopehttp://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/egg-and-hope/
http://theanonymouswriter.com/fiction/egg-and-hope/#respondTue, 13 Jun 2017 03:53:46 +0000http://theanonymouswriter.com/?p=6582I was recently transferred to a small town. On the way back from my office, a railway crossing would make me halt for few minutes.

I was recently transferred to a small town. On the way back from my office, a railway crossing would make me halt for few minutes.

Every day, I would challenge myself to spend those two-three minutes without my phone.

Most days, my panorama would start from a teenage tea seller and I would think about his destitute. He would look back at me with his eyes full of hope and I would look away from him, my eyes landing on the big cake shop on the other side of crossing.

It was the Allah’s way of putting a barrier between the fats and my fate. I would spend next ten seconds trying not to think about cakes. I would then look at my paunch and tell myself to go home and have nutrient-rich diet.

Watching the crossing operator standing there with his green flash lights for what seemed like forever, I would take my phone out and enter the world held in the confines of the phone screen.

“Oh, we are the slaves of technology!” I would type into my e-journal every day and then close it with that very same post every time.

One day when I finished my entry in the journal, the barrier did not open. Apparently, another train was yet to pass.

“Wow, a surprise test!” I told myself as I put my phone back in the pocket.

As I browsed through the other sections, I saw something strange. An old man sat behind his cart, away from the crowd of all the vendors in the marketplace. The strange part was that his cart was empty except for some half-dozen eggs.

I noticed him the next day and the day after as well.

“Has he sold all the eggs?” I used to ask myself.

I had never seen more than a dozen eggs in his cart.

One evening, I saw there were no eggs remaining in his cart, and yet he held to his position with a smile.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked him as my curiosity took over my mind, and he nodded.

“I see you every evening. Your cart carries eggs. But today, there are none.”

“That is not a question, son,” he said, looking into my eyes.

“Have you sold all of them? If yes, then why are you not going home?”

“No, I have plenty left.”

“Sorry, but I do not see any eggs.”

“Oh, I do not sell eggs.”

“Pardon me?”

“Few years ago, this neighbourhood was burnt down in a communal violence. People were too scared to start the business again. Children began to cultivate weed, sell it and consume it. It was horrific. I decided to sell hope to them. I went to them and talked to them. But it did not work. I then realised that I needed a shop to sell something. Since then, I have been selling hope in my tiny cart. People thought that I am an old man high on weed. But I stood the test of time and the result is conspicuous. Now look at these young men with their big shops,” the old man waved his hand at the marketplace.

“May I know your name?

“Pranay Khan,” the old man replied. His eyes beamed with pride.

“I am sorry, are you a Hindu or a Muslim?” I asked hesitantly.

“I was born a Hindu. A young Muslim girl was left with no family. She had no place to go; no one to care of. But these people won’t let me take her.”

“So, you converted to marry her,” I said more to myself than to him.

“I adopted her. That was no age for me to marry. More importantly, that was no age for her to marry. It is time for me to go. May Jesus bless you,” he said.

“Wait, just one last question,” I said and the old man stopped.

“What’s with the eggs?”

“Oh, these are for my shop,” he said and pointed to the cake shop that I had been avoiding all along.